


Je N'aime Pas Mardis

by leestone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leestone/pseuds/leestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the prompt: <i>S3, post-Mystery Spot. I want to see [Sam] grappling with reality, and Dean helping out with that.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Je N'aime Pas Mardis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ordinarily (tofty)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofty/gifts).



******A/N:**   Title by way of The Boomtown Rats' song _I Don't Like Mondays_ ; also vaguely inspired by [this short story](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/That_Feeling,_You_Can_Only_Say_What_It_Is_in_French), which shares three strong thematic links with _Mystery Spot_ : deja vu, violent death, and Hell.  
  
  
Irony is, Sam's _never_ liked Tuesdays.  
  
What are Tuesdays, anyway? They aren't the beginning of the week. At least with Mondays you know where you stand, you're incontrovertibly... somewhere. On Mondays you can size up the road ahead, gauge the distance and the weather. And by the time you hit Wednesday, you're already halfway home. Even a Thursday has the distinction of being part of the downhill slope. It's only on Tuesdays you find yourself stranded in a fog, untethered, stalled in the middle of nowhere. A Tuesday is a day without a plan. It's a slippery day, a day you can't trust. Tuesdays--  
  
"You're talking to yourself," Dean says.  
  
Sam blinks. "I wasn't--"  
  
"You were." Sam's not sure it's possible to _hear_ Dean's grip tighten on the steering wheel, but somehow he does. "You really, really were, Sam." Dean doesn't add, _again_.  
  
"Again," Sam says for him.  
  
"You said it, not me."  
  
"I'm a completist." Sam shrugs. He looks out his window, straining for a detail in the wash of snow and dark beyond the car. There's nothing to see on I-65 West between Indy and Chicago; nothing to anchor it specifically to ten o'clock on a February night. It's an absence of landscape. Beside him, Dean fills his Dean-shaped space with mysterious planes, directions, and colors, just generally continuing to exist.  
  
 _Completion_. Of all Sam's issues, is that the one at the root of this horror? The calendar box that wouldn't stay crossed? The chaos of an odometer number forever clicking backward, no matter his daily mileage? He thinks of hunting alone these part few months. He remembers each newspaper clipping and journal entry pinned in flawless alignment, parallel, immaculate. Then he looks across the seat at Dean, whose right jacket cuff is about to drop its button in a frazzle of thread, and knows that entropy is not his greatest fear.  
  
"I love you," he says. "I really...."  
  
They drive on for a couple miles. Dean's face in profile looks pinched.  
  
Finally, Dean says, "You're saying that because--you wouldn't say that if you thought I was gonna make it." Sam feels him staring. "Or is this even real to you? Right now, inside the car. You and me. Do you know this is real?"  
  
He laughs. "How am I supposed to know what's real? Really _know_? And anyway, why do you care why I said it?"  
  
"I care because _I_ know it's Saturday, Sam. Today is Saturday. Second one since we left Broward County. I think you know it, too. But knowing doesn't matter if you don't _believe_ that it's Saturday, or that I'm really here and not about to die on you again, or that we are where we are--"  
  
"Where we are?" Sam laughs again, too loud for the small space. "Are you fucking kidding me? Look around, Dean!" He slashes at the the windshield. "Where we _are_? I stopped my watch on Monday night, that's where I am. In the dark. It doesn't matter what I say to you anymore, it doesn't matter what I believe! It doesn't matter because _there's nothing out there_! And you _are_ about to--"  
  
The silence is louder than the laugh. He opens his mouth to speak--to apologize, he has no idea what--when Dean jerks the wheel and they veer off the road in a screeching skid.  
  
Sam is shaking. The engine idles. Ten seconds ago there was nothing filling the glass before him, an amorphous fog of night and road leading nowhere. Now (without warning) he is staring at the base of a tower, illumined by the Impala's headlights.  
  
The tower is gigantic, a fairy-tale monolith. He looks up and the beast resolves into a wind turbine. Its blades dip and arc in the February gale. As Sam watches them weave, heart pounding, he becomes aware that the field beyond is filled with identical turbines: acres of silver spires, wheeling into the dark as though synchronized in some mysterious dance.  
  
Dean's arm is still pressed to Sam's chest, warm as a brand where he'd flung it as he spun them into the field. They watch the silent pinwheels. Dean curls his hand, briefly, over Sam's shoulder.


End file.
